I'm overwhelmed. I might even be lost. And I may be in mourning, though I have no idea what it is I am mourning.

Still, a sadness pervades my entire body today causing eyes to droop and anger to escape lips. I'm pissed and pessimistic. I do not see the promise of what was promised to me by being born on this bloodsoaked land. There is no destiny made manifest. There is only a a legacy of genocide, a culture of violence, and a system of oppression.

It is Nine Eleven, a day when American patriotism wildly spreads its ill through social networks. It is a day of supposed unity around a collective tragedy that the world experienced. Only, the world experiences tragedy on a daily basis, and the one that occurred as towers fell and a pentagon burned somehow is glorified as the ultimate loss. It is not. It really is not.

I see too clearly the losses that are greater, the injustices that flourish within our global systems, the misguided notions of exceptionalism mixed with racism. I hear stories about these losses and injustices and misguided notions daily through news feeds and bus rides, and it becomes a weight that burdens steps and actions. It is what causes eyes to droop and anger to spill from lips. It is what is nagging me to nap.

Instead of napping, I type.

I am overwhelmed. I might even be lost. I most definitely am in mourning. And I do not need this to change.

Too often, I find myself in this space and do something to distract, to uplift, to find that dream that in that moment seems so distant. It seems far easier to find hope than to witness the darkness that is the legacy of American history. It is easier to not read the articles of black and brown bodies being killed by cops. It is easier to turn a blind eye towards the ingrained and exalted misogyny of American society. It is easier to take a shower as our deserts grow exponentially.

Today, though, I cannot distract or uplift or dream. I am compelled to just be. It is incredibly uncomfortable, and my heart right now is beating fast and hard. I am weeping as I type this.

I am overwhelmed. I am lost. I am mourning.

Today is Nine Eleven, which does hold significance. It is a reminder that every day is Nine Eleven.

by Jason WymanGodzilla attacked, and I was the only one who could stop her. She was terrorizing San Francisco because some Berkeley scientist found and stole a Godzilla egg while studying the mating habits of whales. The egg was found on a tiny island in the middle of the Pacific somewhere between Hawaii and Japan. The scientist believed he could raise the baby Godzilla and turn it into a weapon for a private security firm that provided handsome grants to his research. It was all very 1950s classic science fiction complete with ominous music played by a string section and a theramin.

I had stealthily snuck into the scientist's lab and confiscated the egg from under a heat lamp that looked more like a prop than an actual heat lamp. The egg was rubbery and moved when touched. It was almost like the skin of an earth worm. I tucked it in my backpack, fled UC Berkeley, and rode BART back to San Francisco.

As we sped across the bottom of the Bay, the train swayed with each step Godzilla took. Unnerved, I held the backpack close to my chest and counted. I count every time I am nervous or scared; it helps drown out the voices of doubt and fear.

When I reached fifty-six for the third time, I woke. The covers were thrown to the middle of the bed and John, my husband, was snoring softly to my right. Godzilla faded and with it so too faded the hope I would save San Francisco. All I was left with was a feeling of terror and failure. Even in my dreams I couldn't achieve the impossible. It left me in a bitter mood.

The day was Tuesday, and I could tell it was going to be a gloriously depressing day filled with lots of wallowing and moping. The dream, while fantastical, echoed feelings of sadness, anxiety, and despair from the day before. I just needed to get through Tuesday. Hopefully, in my next dream, I would save San Francisco, and Godzilla and I would become pals.

I jumped out of bed, rushed to the bathroom, and brushed my teeth. I needed to get out of the apartment quickly. I knew staying would only compound the wallowing. Maybe writing and a strong cup of coffee would jolt me into a better mood. (Spoiler: it didn't.) I just needed movement.

My funk followed me into the afternoon. I couldn't escape it, and I tried to lose it by shuffling my feet, slamming doors, and angrily washing dishes. Nothing was working. It was as if I was trapped in the Transbay Tunnel ready to save San Francisco from Godzilla, but I was unable to actually do anything about it. I was under water.

Then, through the act of scheduling meetings too far in advance, I had a coffee date with Evan Johnson at Borderlands at 6pm. I knew it was coming all day, and it was partly why I wanted so desperately to get out of my funk: I didn't want it bleeding into my meeting/coffee date. Nothing says bitter queen quite like a pouty face and terse words. At 35, I am too young to be a bitter queen. And bitterness always breeds bitterness. What I really needed was hope. Hope that the impossible was possible.

At about 5:00pm, I was loudly pacing through my apartment. My cell in hand I composed a "let's postpone" text to Evan. Something stayed my thumb from hitting send, and instead I packed my bag. By 5:15pm, I left my home and walked the ten blocks (or so) to Borderlands.

I arrived early. I needed that time to refocus, to ground myself, to somehow shake all of the anger, frustration, anxiety, and despair from my body. I purchased a tea and took a seat. Alone in Borderlands, which doesn't play any music, has no wireless, and is library quiet, I meditated. Or more accurately, I sat in silence.

After all of my huffing and moping and general malaise, I paused. In that moment, I felt my shoulders loosen, my breath deepen, and calmness take root. My entire being changed as the result of stillness and anticipation of meeting a friend. Obligation made room for transformation.

Evan arrived moments later, and I greeted him with a warm smile and a hug. He grabbed a pot of tea and we sat together for about two hours talking San Francisco club history, intergenerational dialogue, theater and ensembles, and general artistic visions. Throughout our conversation, I felt my shoulders loosen even more, my breath slowed, and that calmness grow. Sure, I still ceaselessly twirled my pen, but that is just fidgety habit.

There was a moment in our conversation that Evan's eyes widened with excitement. He told the story of Diet Klubstitute, an infamous club promoter in the late 1980s and 1990s, living with HIV/AIDS who confronted his own mortality through humorous and often outrageous drag performances. Evan also spoke of nostalgia and Peter Pan. (He is working on an amazing one-person show that hits stages in 2012!) He shared a story about coming to San Francisco for the first time as a child and seeing Cathy Rigby play Peter Pan at the Orpheum Theater. It was the early 1990s; and as he sat in the theater, the queer community was dealing with the aftermath of HIV/AIDS. There he was in a theater as a young child confronted with the improbability of aging, and San Francisco was morning the decimation of a generation.

Hope was also there. For Evan, there was the hope of imagination capture by a live performance. For San Francisco, hope was spreading through the NAMES Project AIDS Memorial Quilt and clubs like Klubstitute, which Diet promoted and hosted. It was a hope born of grief, loss, and anger. It was the hope of living even in moments of utter darkness.

As I listened to Evan, I, too, found hope, and I realized that hope does not exist in relation to sadness. Rather hope is always around me. I just need to stop chasing it. Then, hope will be found in the silence, in the despair, in a good old fashioned conversation with a friend.

That night, I didn't dream of Godzilla. In fact, I don't remember dreaming at all. And when I woke on Wednesday morning, I laid in bed a little longer relishing the silence.

***This is Part Two of a two-part blog post on interdependence.

Interdependence is the theme of our next 14 Black Poppies Workshop, Finding Community; Finding I, which is on Saturday, November 12 from 10am to 12:30pm at the Happiness Institute in San Francisco. For more information, please click here.

I'm sad. There. I wrote it. Now, maybe I can get past it, but I'm not too hopeful. This sadness has stuck around for quite a while, and sometimes it is so pervasive I take a nap. While dreaming, I imagine a bright neon world complete with flashing billboards, sparklingly clean sidewalks, and everyone wearing the same black high collared uniform. When I wake, I'm even more depressed. I hate neon.

There is also hope in there somewhere. It is hard to find at times, and usually is found while trekking through redwoods or washing rice or sitting quietly at Progressive Grounds with my magenta pen scribbling across a page. Occasionally, hope visits when I'm lost in Facebook in the form of an article by Rebecca Solnit about the hope of the Occupy movement or a cheeky music video like George Michael's "Outside" or a simple status update about birthday thanks. I try holding on to those moments as much as possible. Mostly, though, they slip through my fingers and run as tears down my cheeks.

It is easy to stay sad and give up on hope, especially when it seems so fleeting and intangible. Hope is not visiting me as a steady income or as economic security. I cannot touch hope, and yet its presence, when there, is physiological. I feel my feet lighten and my heart slow when it is near. In fact, my physiological reaction is better than any drug, and certainly more addictive. The crashes, too, are there.

Nowadays, the crashes are bigger, longer, more depressing, so I go chasing hope. I run to the beach, a protest, an experimental performance, a cafe. I'm constantly on the go hoping that hope will find me and stick around for a little longer. Sometimes, like my meeting with Roland and Dawn at the Pacific School of Religion, I find it the quiet moments of possibility where we discuss using theater to open dialogue among LGBTQQIA youth about their personal spiritual beliefs. (I can't imagine what it would have been like to have an opportunity when I was 16 to talk about being out and spiritual.) Those kinds of moments can sustain me for a day or two. Then, like all drugs, hope is gone, and I am back chasing some other hope. It gets tiring.

There is nothing wrong with chasing hope. I have noticed how sad so many other people are. It pops up in blog comments, status updates, turned down eyes, fidgety fingers. I see it as my neighbor walks down the street with his hunched shoulders and shuffling feet. I find it in the 80-year-old Hawaiian woman at McDonald's as she stares out the window every day. It is right below the surface for most these days. It seems a major depression haunts our collective psyche. At least by chasing hope, I have found a way to cope.

I have also seen my temporary hope expressed through shared smiles ripple. I have sat with people in a cafe, listened to their stories, and shared mine. In this exchange, I tend to stay positive, which results in smiles and hugs and more positive outlooks. The exchange even gives me a momentary lightness. Yet always, always, it fades the further I get from that moment. And we live in a linear world, so I am always getting further away.

Lately, though, I have wondered about hiding my sadness. I wonder if hiding it makes it seem that I am fine and don't need help. I wonder if hiding it delays its eventual departure. I wonder if hiding it is hiding truth. I also wonder if in hiding my sadness I am projecting a reality that can never be.

I have told myself that I want to be a point of inspiration for others, that I want to be beacon in these tumultuous times, that I want to provide renewal especially to those on the frontlines of the struggle for social justice. In that narrative, I have chosen to highlight hope because I have believed that there isn't enough hope. If I want to see more hope in the world, I must model it even when I don't feel it.

I am now beginning to realize that hope only exists in relation to sadness. I feel its physiological presence precisely because it ameliorates my sadness. And I wonder if in "faking it until I make it" I am postponing harmony and balance. Maybe if I truly acknowledge sadness, I can let it be and thus be at peace with it. Maybe I won't need to chase hope.

Instead, maybe hope will chase me.

***This is Part One of a two-part blog post on interdependence. The next post, titled "Hope Found" will be published on 11/8/2011.

The photos below were taken on the day of the above post as Jason chased hope through the Presidio.

About the Blog

The 14 Black Poppies Blog is the place to find creative works, personal reflections, articles and various arts and wellness sundries that either inspire or are created by co-founders Jason Wyman and Margaret Bacon Schulze.